


the fate we have

by sabinelagrande



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Established Relationship, Mental Illness, Multi, Post-Movie, Psychosis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 06:15:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4695170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabinelagrande/pseuds/sabinelagrande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things are not going to change for Illya. Or maybe they are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the fate we have

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to pearwaldorf for reading this over. <3

Solo watches Illya trash a hotel suite in London.

He only watches part of it, the door to the bedroom open a crack; he listens to the rest, gun at the ready just in case. But Illya never attacks him, never reaches the door. Solo hears as he tires, the final thunk of some piece of furniture dropped rather than thrown.

Solo waits a few moments before slowly, noisily opening the door. The bar is mostly intact; he walks over, picking his way through broken furniture and fixtures, and pours out two glasses.

All the while, Illya is sitting on the floor, looking at nothing.

Solo walks over, standing in front of Illya and offering him one of the glasses.

"I don't want a drink," Illya says, without looking up.

"It's just soda water," Solo tells him. "Go on. Take it."

Illya takes the glass, sniffing it before taking a sip. Solo finds a chair that's only partially destroyed, righting it and sitting down. Illya is still not looking at him.

"Did you do this in Moscow?" Solo asks, after a long silence.

"Russian hotels have less to break," Illya says dryly. "But they are easier to repair."

There is silence again; Solo's eyes are on Illya the entire time, calculating, anticipating.

"You don't want to leave?" Illya says quietly.

Solo, for all his skill, doesn't know what the tone of his voice means. "Enjoy your drink," he says, standing up and going into the other room, shutting the door between them.

\--

Gaby almost keeps him from giving a street tough a broken arm.

He gets a call from the Lubyanka. These calls seldom go well. There are more threats, more insistences that he is a failure, a catastrophe, a ruin of a man.

Illya believes them.

If only he were stronger, he thinks. If only he could see the reality of his victories despite the cold, cutting, cruel words, the ones that only come because Illya is so painfully, miserably manipulable.

His superior abruptly hangs up, and Illya can feel it starting. He can feel it as it rises up, horrible and predictable and so inevitable.

"Come back to bed," Gaby calls sleepily; she's half on Solo and half sprawled into the space Illya left. For the briefest of moments, Illya almost goes to her, goes back to the warmth and comfort and maybe even safety of the bed.

But there is a man in the corner who is not there, looking at him with tired, sunken eyes. There is the sound of boots all around him. There is a feeling like sand filling his throat, and it will not take long before Gaby becomes part of it, indistinguishable from his tormentors.

He has to get out. He has to go. This isn't her problem. He must keep them both safe.

The boots get louder. Illya leaves.

\--

"What the hell do they talk about in those phone calls?" Gaby asks, when Illya is gone, untraceable, unrecoverable.

"Nothing good," Solo says.

\--

Gaby also breaks the silence.

That's not entirely true; Solo brought it up first, but that was when he and Illya hated each other, an easy barb- easy for Solo, not for Illya- just another rapid-fire cheap shot. But Gaby is the first one who makes a real attempt, does anything positive, substantive about it.

"We need to talk," Gaby says.

"Must we?" Illya says. She has that look on her face, the determined one, the one that says she'll go after him if she doesn't give her what she wants. She can be exhausting when she wants to be, and Illya is already exhausted.

"Yes," Gaby says, not giving in. "There must be something we can do."

Illya sighs. "If there were something to be done, I would have done it long ago."

"You can't just give up," Gaby says, and Illya narrows his eyes at her. Her tone is too upbeat for this conversation by half, as if there's a solution. "It's not real."

"I am a grown man," Illya says, through clenched teeth. "You think I don't know it's not real?"

"Then why don't you try to stop it?" Gaby asks.

"It will never stop!" Illya barks, slamming his fist on the table, and Gaby jumps. "I am not well. There is something broken in me. This will always happen. It makes no difference if you accept it or not." His shoulders slump, a little of the fight leached out of him. "I have to."

Carefully, slowly, Gaby reaches out, closing her hand around Illya's fist. "Then what do you want, love?"

Illya is silent for a long time.

No one has ever asked.

"Someone to be there when it's over," he says haltingly, and Gaby squeezes his hand.

\--

In Madrid, it's a safehouse.

It's good it didn't happen an hour earlier, because Solo would have had to tranq him- standard orders from Waverly, who delivered them with "What a pity" and "Can't be helped, eh?" and other painfully British statements. But as it stands, the mission is over, they're meant to hide out until tomorrow, and Illya destroys most of the kitchen.

It's better when it's just furnishings bearing the brunt, but Solo doesn't like that it's the kitchen; Gaby puts her finger over his lips when he says so. They aren't hiding from Illya, not exactly, but neither of them are stupid enough to get in his way.

The noises subside, and that's their cue.

Illya is sitting on the couch in the front room, looking at nothing. One of his sleeves has a gash in it, blood on the fabric. Gaby sits down right next him, running her fingers through his hair, murmuring soft things to him. Illya doesn't look at her, but he leans towards her just slightly, shuts his eyes.

The first aid kit sits on the kitchen floor, the case dented and the contents spilled. The mercurochrome is unbroken, and Solo picks it up, some gauze and a bandage as well. He crouches in front of Illya, and Illya doesn't protest when Solo rolls up his torn sleeve. There's a cut on his arm, and Solo delicately dabs the blood away and paints it with the mercurochrome. He puts the bandage over it, ostentatiously kissing it, and Illya huffs, the first noise he's made.

"Water?" Gaby asks, her hand on the back of Illya's neck, grounding him. "Something to eat?"

"I'm starving," Illya says, with extreme reluctance.

"Are you guilty because of the kitchen or just because you're Russian?" Solo quips.

"I think I left you some pots," Illya says. "Perhaps even some plates."

"I can work with that," Solo tells him, going into the kitchen. He pops his head back into the front room. "Won't take me fifteen minutes. Half an hour at most."

"Let's have some music," Gaby says, giving Illya a kiss before she gets up.

"Let's," Illya says. He sees the shape of the night already, Solo's cooking and Gaby's dancing, the three of them in bed together later, touches that are fraught with meaning.

Illya relaxes into the couch. On the whole, it could be worse.


End file.
